


Breakfast for Dinner

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Affection, Episode Tag, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:44:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5242016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roman and Dean hit the Waffle House after the 11.16.15 episode of Raw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breakfast for Dinner

“Likin' this fishtank idea more and more,” Dean says, pausing to stir a bite of hashbrown through the puddle of yolk spreading out from his eggs-over-easy. 

“Yeah?” he asks, and takes a sip of coffee, watching Dean's profile over the rim of his cup. 

Dean's head bobs in a nod, his gestures loose and broad. He's feeling good, and Roman feels good looking at him. “Get one big enough, put in a fish for everybody on the roster.” He pops a loaded fork into his mouth, and has the bite mostly chewed before he goes on. “Some kind of bottomfeeder for Rollins. Or maybe, like, a watersnake?” He tears off a vicious bite of bacon, jaw working hard. “We'll figure it out.”

The twins and Naomi have already cleared out, hitting the road for Knoxville, and their side of the booth is empty, but Dean hasn't made any move to shift over to the vacant bench. They're not rolling out until morning; got a room booked in the hotel at the other end of the Waffle House's parking lot, and Dean's still camped out at the end of the seat, laying into the remains of breakfast-for-dinner. Now and then Dean's knee jogs against his own under the tabletop, and his elbow bumps his arm when he rolls out his tricky shoulder. Roman's pretty well penned-in in his seat by the window – couldn't get out even if he wanted to – but it's been a long while since being with Dean felt like being trapped. He works on his coffee and watches his boy and makes a note to himself that they need to take a detour by the ice machine, no matter how much he wants to take Dean straight on up to the room and into bed. 

“Clownfish for the New Day,” he offers.

Dean snickers into his orange juice. “I like that.” He's quiet for a moment after that, considering, while he jabs a fork into the syrupy mush that started out as a bite of pancake. “JBL's gonna have to go, too,” he pronounces. “Need a separate tank for the McMahons.” 

Roman raises an eyebrow at that and waits for him to finish the thought. He's learned that Dean will always finish what he starts, given half a chance. 

“Sharks'd eat all the fish on the roster,” Dean elaborates. 

“Wrestlers are friends. Not food,” he says, as somberly as he can manage in the deep and phony Australian accent he puts on.

Dean erupts with a bright, loud laugh that earns them a curious look from their bored waitress and the skinny kid at the grill. Dean raises his juice glass at them in a toast, and turns back to Roman, still grinning. 

Roman's pretty sure they're both remembering the same day: Roman on the slow mend from surgery, bringing his daughter to see a show he should have been working; the hurry-up-and-wait of pre-show prep finding Dean sprawled beside her at Roman's feet, listening intently to her thorough recap of _Finding Nemo_ ; the two of them ganging up on Roman, making him cave and do the voices. 

“I know I said no more suits,” Dean says, quieter now, “but I bet you could pull one off, if you wanted. You don't need one, but, like, if you thought you did. I'd try to get it, you know?”

Roman knows they're not talking about dressing up for the Hall of Fame and he knows how much time and energy Dean burns bracing himself to be ditched again and he knows that one day he's going to make him believe in them. 

“Think I still look good in riot gear. If I ever did suit up,” he says, and Dean's eyes drop to the table for a beat, until Roman knocks their knees together to draw his gaze back up, “I'd be counting on you to come tear me out of it.”

“You know it,” Dean says, lips curving into a grin that's mischief on top and relief just underneath the surface, and Roman wants to spend what's left of the night kissing every trace of maple syrup from his mouth. 

Dean rolls his shoulders out again, part dance step, part nervous tic, and turns back to the mostly empty plates spread out before him. He nudges a saucer toward him, and Roman helps himself to a triangle of the raisin toast on offer. Nobody takes food off of Dean Ambrose's plate, but Roman isn't _nobody_ to Dean. Not anymore and not for a long time now. Sometimes the weight of that settles on his chest, heavy and proud and worthy of defense. 

He doesn't say any of that out loud – though he promises himself he will, one day, when Dean is ready to hear it without hurting for it – but he tries to put it all into the fingers he curls around the back of his neck and threads into the soft curls above his collar. He counts it as a win when Dean breathes out a soft noise and signals for the check.


End file.
